


A Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n

by MiriamKenneath



Category: Original Work
Genre: Big Cock, Humiliation, Other, Sacrilegious Use of Religious Objects
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-17
Updated: 2018-06-17
Packaged: 2019-05-21 10:10:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14913426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiriamKenneath/pseuds/MiriamKenneath
Summary: The Devil is watching.With a gasp and a choked cry, Father Peter doubles over and spills himself in long, gut-wrenching pulses onto the chapel’s cold, stone floor.





	A Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n

**Author's Note:**

  * For [l_cloudy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/l_cloudy/gifts).



The Devil is watching.

With a gasp and a choked cry, Father Peter doubles over and spills himself in long, gut-wrenching pulses onto the chapel’s cold, stone floor.

The Devil’s gaze never wavers, nor does he speak. He is as still and silent as a statue – which, truth be told, is precisely what he is.

Every once in a while, one or more of Father Peter’s parishioners will ask why the Church would deign to keep a profanity such as this statue within its sacred walls. The reason for this, Father Peter will explain, all gentleness and infinite patience for his flock, is that the fullest appreciation of good can only be known through an equal appreciation of the power and seductiveness of evil. The Devil Incarnate is here in God’s house, he will say, because his temptations are always already everywhere, and it is incumbent upon all of God’s pious children to stare the embodiment of evil full in the face…and then to choose to turn away from him.

What Father Peter will not say – or what, rather, he will not _dare_ to say – is that he himself has stared this particular Devil full in the face on countless occasions, and he has not been able to turn away. Instead, he has allowed this graven image to seduce him with its beauty.

And it _is_ beautiful, this marble statue of the Devil reclining on a rock. So, so heartrendingly beautiful. From the waist up, it has been given the appearance of a handsome, bare-chested youth, all supple, graceful muscles with just the tiniest lingering hint of a child’s softness. The lips are full, the expression wistful, and the little horns peeking out of the head of thick, tousled curls are hardly noticeable.

From the waist down, however, it has the beastly hindquarters of a goat – furry, backwards-bent legs and cloven hooves. It also has a giant, obscenely erect phallus. The phallus is larger than life, of course, because the statue itself is, like all pagan idols, perhaps a third again larger than even the largest living man.

It makes Father Peter _want_.

Oh, does he want!

He has memorised every inch, every curve, every finely sculpted wrinkle and vein. He adores the way the head of the phallus is exposed – foreskin pulled back and tucked underneath the flared ridge – and he imagines himself impaled upon it.

He looks anxiously behind him. There are more than three hours before evening mass is scheduled to commence, and the chapel is empty behind him, not a single soul to be heard or seen. He doesn’t just have to imagine if he doesn’t want to. He could…he could…he could…

He pauses, frozen, a statue himself.

Then, he makes his decision.

With the palm of one hand, he wipes his spent seed up from the floor and transfers it to the Devil statue’s giant phallus. It should help, but no amount of wetness will make this easy.

Father Peter straddles the Devil’s goat-like hips and positions himself directly over the erect phallus.

He lifts his heavy robes and begins to lower himself.

He blasphemes against his Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ and the Virgin Mother Mary – by all the unholy fires of Hell, it hurts! Sodomy is sinful, he knows; no man is meant to be penetrated. And yet, and yet, he cannot stop, and his flesh stretches and tears, and his insides are shoved about and aside, all to accommodate the slick slide of that phallus, so hard, so like ice that his muscles cramp reflexively in response. And yet, and yet, he cannot stop, and the searing pain is akin to burning pleasure, the pleasure akin to pain, on and on and on, seemingly endless, eternal, until he cannot distinguish between the two anymore…until, at last, at long, long last, he is fully seated.

Father Peter’s chest heaves, and he is sweating. Tears leak out from the corners of his eyes. He rests his cheek against the chiselled torso of the statue, lips grazing one pebble-like nipple…

…and he realises he can hear the steady thump, thump, thump of a beating heart.

Before he can react – before, even, he truly has the chance to _think_ – thick arms, strong as stone, wrap themselves around him and prevent him from moving.

‘Thy desire awakens me, and thou hast awakened my desire.’ The voice is like the rumble of the depths of the earth when it shakes.

Father Peter feels himself being lifted and borne down to the floor and laid out on his back. The Devil is a dark shadow looming above him, and Father Peter can feel that thick phallus sliding out of him. Oh, thank God, it isn’t going to—

And it slams back in, right back in, right to the hilt. It feels even bigger than before.

‘Nonononooooooo…!’ Father Peter screams. But there is no one to hear him, no one to save him. God the Father must be punishing him for his sins…

The Devil is utterly merciless. It fucks his hole tirelessly. It fucks his hole until his entrails are soaked and squelching with blood. It fucks his hole until his own cock stretches and rises upwards toward his belly and begins to leak. It fucks his hole until his spine is set alight and he is hurled, still screaming his throat raw, off the precipice, spilling his seed once more.

‘You love it, don’t you, pretty little priest,’ the Devil coos as Father Peter shudders and shakes. Dimly, he realises that the Devil’s speech pattern has shifted. Its voice is less of the sepulchre, more of life. Why…? What does it portend…? ‘Do not fear. We’re not nearly done yet…’

‘Please…’ Father Peter whimpers. He weeps inconsolably. He can hardly think. This is unbearable – the pain, the humiliation—! He’d rather die!

‘Oh, how adorable. You want more, and you ask so politely. Why _of course_ I can give you more—’

Unbelievably, impossibly, the Devil’s phallus inside of him seems to grow even bigger. It isn’t cold anymore, whether from the heat of Father Peter’s own body or the infernal heat of some internal flame, and it burns in a wholly different manner as the Devil resumes its vigorous, violent thrusts.

Father Peter groans. His cock is still as rock-hard as the Devil statue itself.

‘Mmm. I like you. I think I’m going to keep you,’ the Devil says, good-humoured. It smiles, and its polished eyes glint. Father Peter can almost see his own abject reflection in them.

Then, inevitably, its phallus grows bigger yet again, and it thrusts yet harder. The Devil kisses Father Peter tenderly, lovingly on the mouth.

 

_Three Hours Later…_

When the parishioners arrive for evening mass, they find Father Peter lying face-down at the base of the statue of the Devil Incarnate. His arsehole is exposed, and it gapes wide and open with blood and pearly fluid that can only be demon seed.

He is awake, and he is mumbling incoherently – the parishioners assume he is reciting a prayer.

The figure of the statue itself is as it always is, sitting in repose on its boulder. Its erect phallus, though…the phallus is streaked and glistening with the priest’s blood.

 

* * *

_**-fin-** _


End file.
